


To Be Caught

by elvntari



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alongside chapters, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Babies, Blood and Gore, Children of Hurin - Freeform, Cohabitation, Domestic Fluff, Dual Timeline, F/M, First Age, Half-Elves, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced miscarriage, It's sappier than it sounds ok, Mablung Survives AU, Marriage Proposal, Mild Sexual Content, Miscarriage, Nienor Likes Her Men Hot And Stupid, Nienor survives au, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, References to Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sappy Ending, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-11 23:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19552684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari
Summary: When they come to Doriath, Nienor is convinced that her mother won't allow them to stay for long, however to her growing surprise, the days slip into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years in which she can laugh and explore and befriend as many people as she likes. But no good thing can last forever, and when news of her brother comes, she must answer the call, despite all those around her telling her 'no.'-Nienor survives her fall. Left to drag herself to shore, she is certain that she will die anyway--either from the blood loss, or her injuries, or starvation; she is mistaken. Instead, she is found by Mablung, who just five days earlier built her grave. Scarcely believing what he has stumbled on, he takes her back to his home to heal her in the hope that he'll be able to make up for all of his failures from before. Pushing his feelings away, he tends only to her needs, but he finds that the longer they're alone together, the more old emotions come to the surface, and it's so difficult to stay away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic references pretty much everything that happened in CoH, asides from the actual incest (both Nienor and myself are uncomfortable thinking about that), so please keep that in mind. It also deals with the fact that Nienor was pregnant when she threw herself to her death, and now she is no longer so, again, please keep that in mind while reading. It's never explicitly stated, but it is heavily implied. 
> 
> Now that disclaimer is over: I've lowkey had a soft spot for this relationship since reading the unfinished tales, and reading CoH rekindled that within me, so I decided to write it. The fact that Mablung searches for her for three years was enough to get me on board, if I'm being honest. This fic is incredibly, unbelievably soft. I didn't want to write something that was all doom and gloom, despite the subject matter so well, yes, they are living in a post-CoH world, I decided to rather hone in on the light: their relationship and how positive a thing it is for them. 
> 
> I haven't completely glossed over Nienor's backstory, pretending that she'd be totally fine with all of this, but I still can't guarantee the representation of PTSD is 100% accurate. I have done research and featured actual legitimate PTSD coping strategies in here, but I don't have a PTSD diagnosis myself, so if anything seems off, feel free to let me know. I'll always be able to tweak it.
> 
> If you're still planning on reading, I thank you wholeheartedly, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Note for linguists: since Nienor's name is only spelt with the umlaut in CoH and it doesn't actually make a linguistic difference, I chose to leave it without. Plus, there were enough accents to add in anyway, and I didn't want to have to remember another.

There he saw her. 

“That’s the lady Nienor?” He asked, furrowing his brows. She wasn’t exactly what he had been expecting. Where her brother Túrin had been dark, she was golden; where he had been short, she was tall; where he had been brooding, she smiled, a glint of something mischievous in her bright, blue eyes despite the shadows beneath them. One thing was similar, though: she was roughly the same age that Túrin had been the last time he saw him. The effect was haunting.

“Hey, you!” She called out in Sindarin, her accent the same somewhat captivating, rough, unpolished slur that the foster-prince's had been at first. She grinned. One of her teeth was missing. It surprised Mablung how appealing that imperfection looked on her. “Have _you_ seen my brother?”

The elf she had pointed at froze under her gaze. She laughed. 

“That’s her,” his companion Hebintir said, tense. “She doesn’t seem like such a good fit as her brother was.”

“It’s not as if she needs to be fostered.” Mablung found himself somewhat annoyed at his fellow’s comment. “Be careful, or you’ll go the way of Saeros.” He abandoned him at the corner of the room to approach the noblewomen. “Morwen!”

“Mablung.” Morwen narrowed her eyes. Even as the years brushed her cheeks, she was captivating in her elegance. He told her as much. She sighed. “False words will not ease this old woman’s heart. I’m looking for my son.”

“I’m afraid he left here some while ago. Beleg went after him, but did not return.”

Morwen glared at him. “And you have no idea where he went?” 

“Mama, please.” Nienor squeezed her mother’s shoulder, a surprising tenderness to her touch. She really did look like her father—no wonder Morwen eased. “If they don’t know, they don’t know. We shall go seek him ourselves.”

Morwen shook her head. “No. And it’s the not-knowing that disappoints me.”

Mablung sunk into a deep bow. “My apologies, my Lady. It is our shame.”

“See? He’s nice.”

Morwen tutted. “I wish to speak with the King and Queen.”

“And you shall—” Mablung rose— “Please, allow me to lead your way.” He offered an arm. Morwen brushed past him, black skirts rustling as she walked, but Nienor linked her arm around his. She was only a breath shorter than he was. Something about that both disconcerted and excited him; he had never seen a human so tall, let alone a human woman.

They followed after Morwen, arm in arm. “So, what do you do?” She asked.

“I’m a ranger.”

“You’re awfully sweet for a ranger.”

He flushed. “I was raised in court, my Lady.”

She nodded with an appreciative hum. “Maybe that’s why you’re so well groomed, too.” She laughed and wound a lock of his dark hair around her index finger. They walked in silence for a few moments before she spoke again. “I really am sorry about my mother; she’s just worried.”

“No, I understand. Túrin—he—he was important to us, too.”

Nienor’s eyes widened. “What was he like?”

“He brooded a lot when he was younger, but when he got used to being here he would wander around with Nellas and learn about all of the different plants—he had this curiosity, though he managed to hide it well under some more serious facade. He was reckless, too; he never got angry for no reason, but he did tend to...overreact.”

“Sounds like mother.” Nienor chimed. 

Mablung laughed despite himself. “I’m glad you see it, too—ah.” He stopped before the doors to the main hall, at the end of which sat the thrones of his King and Queen. With a sense of disappointment, he pulled his arm loose from Nienor’s and knocked on the door before pushing it open. 

Thingol rose as soon as Morwen entered.

Mablung’s eyes drifted to Nienor as she stared around the room, captivated by its beauty. Túrin had been much the same, if he remembered right, although he had managed somehow to look sad about it; if someone had told him that Túrin and Nienor’s names had been mixed up somehow, he would’ve believed them with no hesitation. Her eyes followed the columns of polished marble, vines growing up around them; the lamps hanging low from the ceiling, emitting a firefly glow over the room; the tapestries that hung from every arch, and then to him. She smiled.

“Mablung.” He jumped at the sound of his name. He hadn’t heard a word of what the king said. “Make sure that they’re comfortable.”

“Of course, your Majesty.” He bowed

“And take care of the lady Nienor while I speak with her mother.”

* * *

There.

She sat, clutching her wrist—bruised black and purple—in one hand, her face and arms covered in similar bruises and scratches, her hair matted and tangled with weeds, mud hardened and cracked on her cheeks. Her dress was torn and dirty and a dark dried liquid (was that...blood?) caked her legs. Wide-eyed, she stared across the stream, straight over his left shoulder, but when he looked back to make sure there was no danger, he only saw the foliage that had always been there. 

_How was she there?_

With a deft few movements, he crossed and gently approached, sinking to his knees before her. “My lady, you are injured.”

She didn’t respond, as if her mind was elsewhere and she had left her body an empty shell. For a sickening moment he was convinced that he had walked back into a memory. 

“Nienor?”

Her eyes flitted down to him. “Nienor, Nienor. He calls me Nienor. Does he know? He must know. Do you—” She paused, her eyes finally focused. “You are not—you are—”

“Mablung, my Lady.”

“Mablung.” She shuddered heavily. “I have missed you, Mablung, I think. I remember so little.”

Now that she was back, she didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. It looked as if her wrist was broken, but not so long ago that it couldn’t be set right; most of the cuts and bruises were minor and, well, hair could be washed. It was the blood that made his stomach turn, but whatever wound had caused it, it had long stopped bleeding. “What happened to you?” He asked, taking her undamaged hand. She tensed, crushing his fingers in her own.

“I shall not speak of it.”

“Then I won’t ask.” He rose, keeping hold of her hand. “You’re injured, my lady, it is my duty to keep you safe. Please allow me to tend to you.”

For a second he was terrified that she’d refuse and demand to be left alone in the woods, but she let her breath go and her shoulders relax and allowed him to pull her up from where she sat. Carefully, she stumbled forward, leaning heavily against his shoulder.

“I don’t want to go to Doriath.” She murmured.

“Then we won’t. I live on the edge of the woods, just around the girdle, it should only be a few hours’ ride on horseback.”

She frowned. “I haven’t eaten in five days and you want me to stay upright on the back of a horse?”

“You can ride with me on mine. I’ll keep you from falling.” He tried for what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It seemed to work; her own responding expression was little more than a gentle tug at the corners of her lips, but it was _there._

They walked for a little while with his arm around her shoulders, her limping along beside him; she managed to stay some approximation of _steady_ for nearly five minutes before doubling over and crying out in pain. 

“Lady Nienor!”

She held up a hand, but her fingers shook and she was sucking in air through the teeth. 

“Please—” he rested his hand firm in the dip between her shoulder blades— “I’ll carry you the rest of the way just so long as you won’t be hurt. It’s not far now anyway.”

She glared up at him through curtains of her hair, but didn’t protest as he slipped the other arm behind her knees and lifted her up. She was painfully light. “You know,” she started, voice hoarse. “You know.” She stopped again as her frown deepened.

“Lady Nienor?”

She shook her head. “No matter. No matter…” Her eyes appeared to slip in and out of focus.

Mablung cursed internally. Whatever had happened to her, she wasn’t entirely present. And what if she had hit her head? Or something was after her? He’d need to get help fast. 

“You know, you seem fairly badly injured; I know there’s a human settlement nearby, perhaps—”

“No.” Her eyes snapped back to him. “You take me to your home, or you take me nowhere at all.”

* * *

They hadn’t been there long, and she doubted that they would stay much longer, but she liked Doriath. It was pretty, and the people there were far nicer than her mother had implied they would be—she kept expecting one of them to turn around and start spewing hatred, turning into some dragon or demon as they did so. The thought quite entertained her and, well, dragons were for slaying.

Mablung refilled her cup with that sweet smelling green liquid. He said it was jasmine tea. She decided she liked jasmine tea. 

He was not the kind of person she had been expecting to meet in Doriath. From Turin’s messengers she had heard about the King and Queen, and she had heard about Beleg. When she asked after Beleg, all she got in return were pained looks and broken eye-contact. 

Mablung appeared more formal than his missing companion, and a little more uptight, though when it came to him it didn’t seem to be a fault. He had long, dark hair, braided back with green and blue thread, and beads of colourfully painted wood held the style in place. His eyes were a bright grey-green, not quite luminescent, but close, and his skin was the colour of cream. She reached out and took his hair in her hand again, examining the design. He flushed peach. 

“This is beautiful,” she half-lied. The woven thread certainly was, but the green clashed with the red of the adornments. Really, she had just wanted to touch his hair—it was softer and smoother than anything she had felt before. She and her mother both shared thick, coarse curls that were a nightmare to brush out but looked wonderful when stacked in the right style. 

“Thank you, lady.”

“Why do you call me that?” She asked, taking a sip of her tea. 

“Your parents are the lord and lady of Dor-Lómin, are they not?”

“Not anymore.” She shrugged. She knew of the title, sure, but a ladyship implied _power_ and her mother had made her painfully aware that, that was one resource of which they had none. 

“But surely—”

“We have no sway there; we’re lucky not to be slaves.” She took another sip, then rose. “But it doesn’t matter now. Am I confined to this room, or will you do me the honour of showing me around?” She held out a hand to him. 

He stared.

“If I’m not allowed to leave, just say so.”

“No, no—I—nevermind; let me show you my favourite spots.” He took her hand, and led her away from the small room with the curtains and the soft seats and down a network of arches and corridors, illuminated by those same firefly lights that she had seen in the hall. There was no denying that Menegroth was beautiful, although she couldn’t help thinking that the place was more ‘arch’ than ‘cave.’ 

He pulled her by the hand through one of the arches and she found herself standing at the bottom of a spiral staircase with no railings. It went up a long way. Her stomach churned.

When she had been little and the slavers had come nearby, her instinct had always been to run up as high as possible into the house, tripping on steps that were too high for her little baby legs, picking up splinters from the ladder into the attic. Her mother had caught her arm one day as she ran, and marched her up there, her grip like irons. When they reached it, she had flung open the window. 

_“What do you do if the bad men come up here, Nienor?”_

Nienor had shaken her head. She didn’t know. 

_“You jump. You jump out of this window and you fall and pray that it kills you. Don’t run upstairs; the safety you feel here is an illusion. You can escape into the forest through a door ‘round the back, my child, always choose that instead. You want to live—you have to live.”_

Tentatively, she had stuck her tiny head out of the window for some morbid desire to see just how far down it went. From so high up, and with her being so small, it had seemed like the ground was worlds away. For a horrifying second, her fingertips had slipped against the window frame, and the realisation of what falling meant hit her, but Morwen’s grip on her arm had tightened and pulled her back. 

_“Careful, darling.”_

She swallowed. “Um.”

Mablung’s eyes widened, then his expression eased into a smile. “Don’t worry,” Mablung said as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, “I won’t let you fall.”

“Promise?” She tried not to let the fear show in her voice.

“Promise.”

He held her tight as they climbed the stairs—she wondered if her brother had also been afraid of these staircases. Probably not. She couldn’t imagine him being afraid of anything, not from the stories she heard from Sador and her mother. 

To Mablung’s credit, he didn’t tell her not to look down. Instead, he told her to look up—the ceilings were hung with vines, growing out from in-between the cracks of great mosaics. They told stories about before the sun, when everything was dark, portrayed in rich blues and purples. She saw the King and Queen kneeling together at the side of a lake; a young girl with dark hair playing surrounded by moths; a face off between a man with dark hair braided in thread and a group of orcs. He looked—

“Is that you?”

“Oh, no! I’m not that old. That was my father.” Mablung laughed. 

It took her a moment to register that he was using past tense—that he, an elf, ageless and deathless, was using past tense. “You father, he—” Her stomach lurched. She’d missed her footing. She was going to fall. She was going to die—

“I’ve got you.” Mablung’s grasp around her shoulders tightened and for a moment she was suspended, heart racing, in the air before he pulled her back onto the steps. “It’s not far now, but if you want to go back—”

Nienor shook her head. The prospect of having to walk back without even the choice to not look down frightened her. The rest of the climb up blurred into a haze of her trying to recover from her panic and trying to avoid looking as afraid as she was, but Mablung didn’t let her go until they were safely in the room at the top of the stairs. 

“I’m sorry about that; my friends had a taste for drama.”

It was a music room—or, no, not really. It was more a room with a potential for music. There were high windows, covered by gauzy curtains of soft yellow and green, with seats stacked high with plush cushions. The floor was covered by a soft woven rug that looked like a wall covered with a rose trellis. She stepped forward, and spun around, taking everything in. In one corner, there were shelves covered in books written in some script that she didn’t recognise, propped up in place by colourful glass bottles filled with various collectible items. One had a flower growing out of it. The instruments strewn about all over the place seemed secondary to the quiet sense of belonging that the place seemed to emit. Her imagination conjured up images of groups of people sitting around together, drinking and laughing and telling each other stories. 

And yet, there seemed to be a layer of dust over everything, as if no one had been there for a long time. 

“This used to be one of the Princess’ favourite haunts,” Mablung spoke up. “After she left, people stopped coming here. I still find it beautiful, though.”

“What’s the point of having something beautiful that cannot be touched?” Nienor asked, as she ran a finger through the dust atop a woodharp. It was carved along the side with that strange script—she couldn’t read it, so in her imagination she decided that it was a charm of some sort to make the music sound sweeter. She plucked one of the strings, sending a plume of dust into the air. She was no expert, but it sounded almost painfully out of tune.

Mablung laughed at her expression, then offered her his arm. “Would you like to see something a little less high up and a little less abandoned?”

“Why, I do suppose I would.” She mock curtseyed at him

He guided her over to one of the windows, then flung it open, revealing a gently sloped walkway down to a lower level, suspended above a babbling stream. She sought his eyes again, but he held her tight and besides, she reasoned, this time there were railings. 

From there, he led her down to splendidly adorned banquet halls, gardens filled with sculptures and young elves training (she’d joined a group of them for a moment, delighting in Mablung’s panic even as she tentatively held her own), and kitchens where the smell of fresh bread made her salivate. Finally, they came out onto a balcony that overlooked the beautifully complex network of the city. For a moment, her heart swam, but upon peering over the railing she found that they were only a foot or so above the ground.

“It really is as wonderful here as they say.” She smiled. 

“Just as well that you like it, then, if your mother decides you should stay.”

“Do you think she will?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I can’t say; all I really know of her, I heard from Túrin.”

Nienor nodded. “You mentioned your father earlier—”

“Slain by orcs,” Mablung said, before she could even ask the question. “I hear it was a heroic sacrifice, but I wasn’t alive yet to know.”

“Oh,” she rest a hand against his arm. “We have that in common, then.”

He looked back at her, as if seeing her anew. “I—I suppose that we do.”

* * *

He sat her down at the kitchen table, and felt around her bad wrist. She didn’t cry out, even if the pain felt like it might kill her. Perhaps she hoped that it would. 

“It’s broken,” Mablung said at last, looking up at her—he lost his words as he met her gaze. 

“I had thought so.”

“Sorry.” He blinked. “It’s a clean break though, I should be able to set it right.”

She nodded. “Do as you will. I care not.”

He looked sheepish, but reached again for her wrist. “This will hurt.”

Nienor nodded. The pain of the set burned through her and set her entire nervous system screaming, but she little more than flinched, even as the tender throbbing began to pulse around the break again. Mablung was the one who winced. 

“Stay here, I think I have something I can use to splint it.”

“I have no power to leave,” she said. He frowned, but, to his grace, avoided saying anything more. In the end, he splinted her wrist with broken arrow shafts, before heating her up a bath with some antiseptic salve and helping her wash and tend the rest of her cuts and scratches. 

“May I ask you something, my lady?” He said, as he wrapped a warm towel around her shoulders. Nienor nodded carefully so as not to undo the stitches at the base of her neck. He cleared his throat. “The blood, I—”

“I cradled a dying man in my lap,” she lied, “no more. Don’t worry about that.”

He nodded. “What would you like to eat?”

Her stomach lurched at the thought of eating anything, but she would not let him know that. “Whatever is easiest,” she said. It occurred to her to ask him not to call her ‘lady,’ but there was something nice about the title now, though it should’ve become more bitter than sweet in time. In another life, she would’ve grown to inherit it from her mother, and she would’ve been fair and gracious and powerful—able to govern in peace rather than fear. 

Mablung slipped away into the kitchen.

Or maybe she’d have handed it over to a cousin, or even to Aerin, and gone off to marry and live somewhere quiet far away from all the hurt. In another life, she’d never have left Doriath.

“I could make stew. Something filling, since you haven’t eaten in so long.”

Nienor followed his voice into the kitchen.

“I’d like that.” She sunk down into one of the chairs, winding the fabric of the towel tighter around her. Mablung had folded up her dress and left it on the stool she had been sitting on before, but she could tell even from the distance that it was beyond salvation, what with all the blood, and the tears, and the mud. 

“You’re actually here, then?” He said, pulling a pot from a high shelf with a clang. She nodded. “I thought you were dead.”

“So did I,” she said. “So did I.”

He reached down and lifted a jug from beneath the sink, then poured out the water into the pot. Rushing and Rushing. The water moved fast. It moved…

It hit her face, her body; knocked the air from her lungs and sent a snap through her wrist, tore at the skin of her shoulder. Suddenly death seemed so much scarier. Suddenly it seemed so much more painful. She sank beneath the cold water, dashed against the side of the rocks, scraping open her back. A film of blood clouded around her, and the world went dark. So very, very dark. Until some current pulled her back to the surface and—

“Nienor?”

She gasped and grabbed Mablung by the wrist. Shooting pain exploded down her arm. _“Shit._ Shit, I’m sorry, I—the water—I was drowning.”

“It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

“Am I?” She breathed. Her eyes refocused and the world beyond him came into view. The jug, discarded empty on its side against the counter, the cabin, the pot, so perilously hanging over the edge. It could fall. It could fall, and tumble, and smash, everything within spilling out into a mess on the floor—she reached forward with her good hand and pushed it back into place. 

“You can’t drown here,” he said, “there isn’t enough water.”

Something about the way he said it so seriously in a room miles away from the nearest puddle made her laugh. “You’re right.” She reached out, and pulled him into a hug. He tensed for a second, but quickly returned the embrace. “Not enough water here,” she said, but after the moment of humour passed, she was left with unease in her stomach. The shadow of Teiglin seemed like it might follow her forever. 

He pulled back from her gently, and took her injured hand in his own. “Have to be more careful with this one, though.”

Nienor nodded. Then turned her attention to the pot. “Would you like me to help?” The idea of having to sit and do nothing while he worked sounded like torture. Anything that would leave her alone in her head sounded like torture.

“No, lords, you need to rest,” Mablung said as he pulled out a chopping board and got to work. 

“Let me do something, at least,” she pleaded, wondering if it was better or worse for the desperation to show in her voice. He hesitated, knife raised above a carrot. 

“We could talk?” He suggested, at last. “It would be nice to have company, I think.”

“Of what?” Nienor asked, cocking her head to one side. She realised it was her first time calm and aware enough to get a proper look at him since they had been separated by the mists all those years ago. He hadn’t changed much; she supposed that was the nature of the firstborn, but he wore more colour in his hair, and two new piercings—little painted wooden disks—hung from the tips of his ears. Mablung bit his lip, then smiled, the idea coming to him clear on his face. 

“I could tell you about Lúthien. When she was young, I mean.”

That took her by surprise. She had expected something plain, like hunting practices or the weather; or something heavy, like their families, but this was pleasantly light and pleasantly interesting. “Okay then.” She sat forward in her seat. “Tell me.”

“She and I were friends, not that it really matters now, but...we grew up together, in a way. I’m younger than her by about fifteen years, although time was weird back then, and passed however it pleased. Sometime when she was thirty and I was sixteen, Daeron was born, and then Beleg a year later.”

Nienor’s attention doubled at the sound of Beleg’s name. The people around her had always avoided speaking about him. “Beleg was younger than you?”

Mablung nodded. “There weren’t many children back then, though. It was dark, and no one fully trusted the girdle, so they held back. My father was an Avar who my mother met while hunting outside of the Girdle. I never heard the details, but he died protecting her men during their return, shortly after I was conceived.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mablung shrugged. “Anyway, since the adults were all busy trying to keep the peace, the older kids got saddled with the younger ones, and Lúthien and I, who had really only had each other to play with, were handed these two babies to look after. Beleg was a sweet child; his parents were lost when he was still a baby, so he spent a lot of time around me and my mother. Daeron followed Lúthien everywhere, did everything he could to impress her. He was a smart kid.”

Nienor scoured her mind for whatever she might remember about Daeron—there was only the news that he had been somehow involved with what happened to Beren and Lúthien, nothing more. 

“Lúthien encouraged him,” Mablung continued, “because she was nice, and didn’t want him to feel ignored. Not when he was so little and thought the whole world of her. But also because he _was_ impressive; he had a gorgeous singing voice, and a crystal clear memory—he just seemed to have a _knack_ for anything intellectual.”

“Was Lúthien ever less than perfect?” Nienor asked. She realised that might’ve sounded more scathing than she had intended, but Mablung didn’t seem to notice or care.

“She could be rash, and she didn’t like rules much. Sometimes she was genuinely cruel—not on purpose, but because she was so used to people loving her regardless that she didn’t pay attention to her own words. But she was kind. She tried her best to be, and she was a good listener. She was the one who suggested that I move out here, you know? If only so she had an excuse to safely get away from Menegroth.”

“Were you in love with her? It sounds like everyone was, sometimes.”

Mablung shook his head. “She wasn’t my type.”

Nienor snorted. 

“I’m being serious!”

“Sometimes,” Nienor said, “I’d imagine myself living somewhere like this. It’s so... _normal_.”

“Thanks.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. Just the idea of being able to not be the daughter of Húrin, or the Wraith, or anything of importance, really. Getting to settle down and live in peace and quiet. There’s something about it.”

“I really—I really am sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not catching you when you ran.”

She swallowed, the unease rising in her throat again. She hadn’t run. She had gotten lost. She—she was forgetting. It was during her darkness. “Oh. Well. Let’s not—”

“Right, right.” He said, but she could see the need in his eyes. He wanted her to say something, to yell at him, scream, blame him for everything. “Well, stew’s ready.” He ladelled it out into two bowls and set one down in front of her. 

“I forgive you, you know. For what I remember.” _We’ll see about what I forget._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this chapter will contain references to the events of CoH, however, it's a lot softer than the first chapter and, in my humble opinion, generally a lot sweeter. As this was originally a oneshot, I won't be doing chapter summaries, since they all fall under the umbrella of the original summary. Hope you enjoy!

Nienor didn’t have a whole lot to do in Doriath—at least at first. From what he could tell, Morwen liked to keep her safely at her side and didn’t much approve of her various escapades out into the forest, or down into the depths of Menegroth, but Thingol had said that she could explore wherever she liked, so explore she did. Just so long as she didn’t leave the city.

Or, just so long as she didn’t leave the city _alone._

He realised with some strange combination of horror and delight, that his king had never said anything about leaving the city accompanied by someone else. 

“I just think,” Nienor smiled innocently, “that you’re looking a little short on men.”

The professional part of him that had some degree of initiative told him that it’d be best to turn her around and send her on her way immediately. The less professional part of him thought that it’d make the perimeter check a hell of a lot more fun to have Nienor come along.

“Have you asked if you’re allowed to do this?” 

“Yes. I’m allowed to leave the city accompanied.”

 _Did your mother explicitly say that?_ Was what he should’ve said. What he actually said was, “sounds alright to me, but you’ll need to find some armour that fits. Do you know how to fire a bow?”

“Shouldn’t be hard,” she said, leaning against Hebintir, “I’m taller than our friend here and he’s got armour that fits.”

Mablung tried very hard not to smile. “Armoury’s that way; you should be able to find something.” She jogged off and Hebintir seethed. 

“Sir, she has no formal training whatsoever.”

“Have you considered that I’m not bringing her along for her skill with arms?”

“She’ll slow us down!” He folded his arms. “Just because you go weak at the first hint of attention from a...woman doesn’t mean the rest of us should have to risk our safety.”

Mablung tensed. “I don’t—she and I—”

“What? What about you and her? You let her get away with anything.”

“She’s not mine to command,” Mablung said, simply. 

“But _we_ are, and you should at least be able to say ‘no, lady, you can’t come with us; you don’t have adequate training and you’ll put my men in danger.’”

“It’s a _perimeter check,_ Hebintir, of a city protected from attack by maiarin magic; we aren’t in any danger.”

They froze as an arrow whistled through the air, grazing the tip of Hebintir’s ear. “Who says I haven’t had training?” Nienor stepped down and out into the courtyard. “I came here when I was twenty-two, and you really think that my mother, living in the world that we did, would leave me with no ways to defend myself?” 

“Impressive,” Mablung said, “and the armour fits nicely.”

Nienor bobbed her head. “Thank you.” Dressed like that she fit in almost perfectly. Hebintir scowled and stormed off. 

“So, your mother trained you to shoot?” Mablung said as he led her over to the stables. Someone had already gotten her horse waiting next to his. 

Nienor nodded. “Not her personally but, you know.”

Mablung mounted his horse. “How much of that conversation did you overhear.”

“I heard you get accused of giving me favourable treatment because I’m a beautiful maiden, if that’s what you mean.”

“Ah.”

“Is he right?”

“I certainly like you more than I like him.”

Nienor laughed, seemingly satisfied with his answer.

They rode out and he was under no doubt that he had made the right choice by choosing to allow Nienor to come along with him; she laughed and joked and galloped ahead of the rest of the party, letting her hair stream out behind her in the wind. Sometimes Mablung rode to catch up and they’d race each other around, then canter in circles and talk while they waited for the rest to catch up. 

He was also under no doubt that Hebintir _hated_ it. Mablung caught him glaring in Nienor’s direction several times, but it didn’t worry him. Nienor didn’t seem like the type to chase him naked through the forest with a sword—he liked that about her. There would be no stressful court cases to bring to Thingol. No having to abandon everything to follow her and bring her back. A frown passed over his features as he thought of Beleg. 

“What’s on your mind?” Nienor asked. 

“I’m just thinking that you’re pretty different from your brother.”

“Aha! Another clue. How so?”

“You probably won’t kill Hebintir.”

“The short one?”

“But he might kill you.” Mablung sighed. 

“Maybe I’d deserve it,” she said, and she seemed unfathomably far away for a moment—as if those two metres between them were leagues that could never be crossed. The moment passed, and the two metres were simply two metres again. “It feels counterproductive to simply sit around waiting for my brother to return, especially if he swore that he wouldn’t. I want to find him.” She turned, looking over to the edge of the girdle, her hair catching in the wind again, casting her in a dramatic profile.

Now she was almost too close, as if her hair would brush against his face and tickle his cheeks. Too real. The last person who had gone after Turin hadn’t come back. Not in the end. 

* * *

Nienor liked to help where she could. At first it was just talking and keeping him company whenever he was home (she told him that she reorganised the cupboards while he was out, and then, when she was strong enough, the weapons. Eventually she was using them to set traps around the perimeter to catch rabbits or, he suspected, stray humans.) She’d tell him about the stories her mother used to tell her as a child, or make up her own—sometimes she’d talk about her house, and the other people who lived in it. She painted a rich, yet tragic, picture of the heiress stripped of all that was hers by war. But the stories weren’t sad. They were fond memories of times long gone, full of life and fun. 

He paid her back with his own, trading story for story. The times he snuck out into the forests in the dead of night with Beleg just to see what sort of creatures they’d find. The reason why the music room was so high up—why one of its only exits was through a window. Heading out to the older, more abandoned parts of Menegroth—the mistakes in its construction—to look for wraiths—

“I was a wraith, once,” Nienor murmured. He paused in his work to look at her. She’d gotten stronger in the two months since he’d found her; her wrist no longer needed splinting, her hair was clean (though it had to be cut back to her scalp to be rid of all of the tangles), most of her cuts were healed (only the worst left scars) and she’d put back on enough weight that he didn’t think a strong breeze could knock her over. Still, when she spoke he believed it. He could see the reflections of it in her expression and the way she held herself. She could be haunting when she wanted to be. 

“But not anymore,” he said, handing her a potato to chop. It hurt her wrist too much to peel them, but she liked the act of making things and scorned at the idea of full rest. 

Her eyes refocused on him, as if only just realising he was there. “Not anymore,” she agreed, and smiled. They passed a few moments in comfortable silence before she spoke again. “Where do you go, when you take long trips?”

“Doriath.”

“Do they know about me?” She lowered the knife and set it down on the counter.

“No—I—you said you didn’t want to go there, so I assumed that you wouldn’t want them to know about your survival either.”

She nodded. “Thank you, really.” There was a pause as she added the potatoes to the pot. “I was also wondering, since my wrist is mostly better now, if you thought it would be wise for me to come hunting with you.”

“Wise?” He paused to think. She wasn’t asking his permission—no—she would never be the type of person who needed permission for anything. It wasn’t in her blood. She was asking his counsel. “I think…” he chose his words carefully, “I think that there is a chance that it could agitate your wrist, which wouldn’t be good, but I also think that staying cooped up in this cabin could agitate _you_ and that—that’s probably worse. Historically speaking.”

A smile pulled at the corners of her lips. 

“I think we can compromise. Just about.”

“I come with you, but I don’t hunt,” she said, finishing the thought. “I’ll lay my traps instead.”

He nodded. “That works. I don’t want you to feel as if you aren’t free to go.”

She frowned. “There was a time when people would hold me back, tell me to stay put and stay safe; my mother, my—” her frown deepened. Mablung glanced down to see that her hands were shaking. 

“Nienor,” he said, “we’re safe here. Just us and the forest.” It was a strange thing to say, he thought, but it worked. Whenever she got like that—so lost in the memory of her own death or her darkness—he would remind her of the forest, and she would relax. The forest stretched for miles; hundreds upon thousands of people lived and worked and loved in there—enough, she said, for her to remember that she wasn’t the only person alive in the whole world. So many of them wouldn’t even know her name; it was comforting. A promise.

She took a deep breath. “You’re right. Just the forest. Just us.”

 _Just us._ The words send a flutter through his chest. He had always liked Nienor; she had always seemed like someone worth knowing, but the more time he spent around her the more deeply those feelings worked their way into his heart. The stronger she got, the stronger his care for her grew. 

The more time he spent around her, he would remember before she disappeared, when she would go out into the forest to explore and insist that he come with her just so Thingol and her mother wouldn’t worry. He was happy to watch her and listen to her talk, unafraid to steal glances at her when her hair caught the sun and shone like spun gold. 

And he had realised he was doing it again. Taking his eyes off his own tasks just to look at her for a moment, to see her at peace, doing something quiet. Sometimes she’d look up and smile at him just a little, and he’d wonder if his heart would stop. 

It usually was just them, too. Just them, working together to tailor some of his clothes to fit her. Just them, experimenting with the best way to cook rabbit, spilling sauce everywhere and not caring. Just them in front of a cauldron of low flame on midsummer night with a glass of wine, talking about nothing in particular.

They shared a bed, too, although that didn’t seem so significant. It wasn’t as if anything happened within it, and it was a gesture driven by necessity, but it was difficult to spend so long so physically near to another person without becoming accustomed to their sleeping patterns, without noticing whenever they awoke. There were times in the night when Nienor would sit up and stare at the wall and murmur of her darkness until he’d throw open a window and let the sounds of the woods around them seep in and bring her back to reality. 

“I don’t think anyone could stop you from going where you wanted to,” he said. 

* * *

Her mother had been watching her closely. It was nothing serious, the queen had assured them during a spare moment; orcs were sighted around the edge of the girdle all the time. They never made it in. Still, Morwen had worried and decided that it was better to be safe than sorry. So she had taken Nienor away to her chambers and insisted that she stay there until the threat passed.

Nienor was bored. 

And when she was bored, her mind got to wandering.

First, there were memories: thoughts of her childhood, playing alone and trying to survive on secondhand stories about her older brother. It had always been a sore point for her mother, but Sador had been happy to oblige. Still, she didn’t realise that she had a sister until she was ten and Aerin brought her up in passing. Then the journey to Doriath, and how she’d ridden behind her mother, bow in hand, hoping—praying—that nothing would come near enough to her that she’d have to shoot it. Then Menegroth, and how nice it was to explore there. 

She also thought about Mablung. 

It probably wasn’t a good idea to indulge in that, but she did. 

There was a knock on the door. Her mother rose and pulled open the door. 

“Speak of the wizard…” Nienor murmured under her breath. Mablung was dressed differently—not in a marchwardens uniform, but not casually either. He wore a high collared, charcoal grey coat, open at the front to reveal a dark green shirt and breeches. His hair was woven into a complex braid that sat at the top of his head, adorned with jeweled dragonfly pins. “You look nice.” She waved at him, and he smiled back.

“Lady Morwen,” he said, turning his attention to her mother, “His Royal Majesty King Thingol summons you to dine with him—it is a feast day.”

“Why’s that?” Morwen asked, guarded. Nienor straightened up from her position slouched against the table. Still, even after two years in safety, she found the idea of a feast exciting. When she was little her greatest fantasy had been of her wedding feast; not because she’d be married, but because she’d get to eat as much as she wanted, and whatever she liked without worrying about scarcity.

“His Royal Highness Prince Dior has returned.” _Dior._ The son of Lúthien. Nienor had always wondered about him. “He is getting betrothed to the lady Nimloth.”

Nienor had seem Nimloth around. She was a quiet woman, but she always seemed to have an intelligent glint in her eyes that made her seem like she’d be able to out-debate anyone who dared to quarrel with her. Sharp as a knife, and just as beautiful.

Her mother appeared to debate with herself for a moment, before responding. “Please wait there, Captain, we will be ready shortly.” She turned her attention to her daughter. “Nienor, wear something nice, and comb through your hair a little so I can put it up for you.”

Nienor nodded, then rose, smoothing out the creases in her nightdress. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen the need to get dressed if she wasn’t leaving those rooms, so all of her clothes were as fresh as wash day. She glanced toward Mablung to double-check exactly what he was wearing and found that he had averted his eyes. It made her smile. Elves, for all their bravery, seemed to retreat within themselves when it came to matters of the body. 

She picked out a black dress with an embroidered green hem—it wasn’t the kind of thing that she and her mother would’ve worn (or owned) before Doriath, but apparently the king’s love of her brother had rubbed off its effects on them, too. Her mother pulled her hair into an updo, held tight with pins. Still, a few curls fell free around the back of her neck and her forehead. 

Morwen smiled at her in the mirror. “You look wonderful, child.”

As they left, she linked her arm with Mablung’s—it had become almost a joke between them to walk like that, but here it felt significant for some reason, as if their appearance together meant anything other than that they were friends.

They walked through those arched hallways that had become so familiar to her in the years she had spent in Menegroth, unusually quiet (all the attention focused on the prince) and joked with Mablung about trivial things: how she really _would_ be the dirtiest person in that hall, for one. She’d heard about Saeros. She thought it was best to make light of that. Mablung laughed, which felt like opening a chest to find gold spilling out from inside.

Like when they’d met, he unlinked their arms to push open the door, except this time he let his hand rest against the small of her back. He gave her a quick smile as the doors swung open. 

The room within was hung with jewels and beads and more of those shining firefly lights, this time exchanged from yellow and green to purple, and blue and silver. From what she could tell, those were Lúthien’s colours, and it looked as if she had walked into the inside of a flower.

And there, at the head of the table, was Dior. 

Looking at Dior was like looking at a painting, or one of those tapestries, or a mosaic or—or anything really, that wasn’t entirely real. His skin was smooth and white, and his hair fell in long, dark curtains around him, braided back to keep it from his eyes. His eyes were a warm brown, apparently the only part of him that wasn’t essentially identical to Lúthien. And he was strange. His limbs seemed slightly too long, the colour of his eyes too deep, teeth a little too sharp. Not ugly, no, not by any stretch of the word: but unnerving. 

All of the elves looked a little strange, with their translucent skin and their colourfully ringed irises, but Dior was especially so. She turned her attention back to Mablung, who was more of a reassuring degree of unusual. 

“He’s—he’s—nevermind.” Nienor sighed. “He’s certainly here.”

“What were you hoping for?” Mablung asked. 

“I don’t know—someone ruggedly handsome, or really pretty but, you know, in a human way. I suppose I kept hearing ‘most beautiful man to ever live’ and imagined someone like me.” She glanced at him again—there was a nick at the corner of his jaw that had scarred, almost as if it had come from shaving. She narrowed her eyes.

She glanced back to her companion—she’d always thought Mablung was attractive; it now dawned on her that, if beauty was so different for elves, then she might be one of only a few. Sure, he was still pale and weird and inhuman, but the line of his lips was broken by a scar, and his face was rounder, more square than the others that she had seen. He was nowhere near human, but he came closer than most around him and, after all, wasn’t Dior meant to be half-human?

“Maybe I was expecting someone like you.”

* * *

Brandir had counselled her to wait. 

That was all she would allow herself to think about that time—she had been told to wait, and she had not. She would not make the same mistake twice. 

But.

She knew Mablung, and she knew him well, and it had been months already since they were reunited, and years since they were separated. 

_Wait, wait, wait._ Had she not waited long enough? 

Since the first stirrings of feeling tugged at her so long ago; since she had dressed herself up to match him; since she’d caught herself thinking of him whenever she got a moment alone, away from her mother’s gaze. Those feelings had incubated within her for so long, and they were ripe and fresh and warm and they made her feel _better._ For all the good they did to bring back the part of her that was long gone (which was no good whatsoever) they made her feel _normal,_ like she was a real person, and a real person with a stupid crush on a pretty boy. It made her giddy.

But it’d have to be in the forest. Outside, where nothing could get her, and the world seemed so big and infinite and endless. And bright. It seemed bright. Brighter than her darkness, certainly. 

She had seen what pain and trauma had done to people; seen the longing for the person from before, to be them again. But whenever she looked back, it was as if her darkness had always loomed over her head, waiting to take her. She wouldn’t go back to that person from before if someone paid her to. Still, she imagined the Nienor from the past. She’d have worried, she thought. Most likely that she would ruin whatever had bloomed between them, but the Nienor in the present was not afraid. She made less of a game of it, yes, but she didn’t need the game to hide behind, to keep her feelings safe. 

“Mablung?” She called out as he dismounted. He waved back to her. Back from Doriath, still keeping the secret of her life close.

There had been an easy comfort between them as of late, too, the kind where nothing you could do with good intentions would ever ruin it. She walked over to meet him where he stood, helping him lead the horse back to the stables. It had always liked her better, to his amusement. “I meant to ask a long time ago, but you seem so far away from everyone out here, are you alright?”

“I was—lonely, I mean—for a while. I suppose I thought I was alright, too, but I definitely prefer your company.” 

She smiled and slipped her hand into his as they walked. He laced their fingers together; she had a feeling that she would not need to say much. “Good, because I like living with you, and I like living here.”

“Then would you do me the honour of staying?” He said, turning to face her. She found herself lost—he’d beaten her to it. 

She nodded. 

“And perhaps, if it’s not too much to ask—” he stopped. 

“Go on.”

“Would you do so, perhaps, as my wife—just—it would be more proper—”

“One, yes, yes I would. Two, you elves and your propriety never cease to amaze me. Three...” She leant forward and kissed him. Something about the action felt so indulgent and delightful and so _deserved._ He returned the gesture, kissing her back, pulling her closer against him. 

When they broke apart, he pulled her into a hug. In the forest, nothing could harm her. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in his scent; bark and leaves and dirt and freshness and _safety_. Her mother had taught her never to rely on anyone else, but maybe—just maybe—if she allowed herself to rely on him, she’d be able to rest at last.

And maybe, possibly, that would be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments with any feedback, thoughts and questions that you have and (of course) any praise. Thank you all for reading; I promise I don't usually update this often, just I'd already had the majority of this chapter written. Next one might take a while longer (and I've started a new project on the side!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Mablung taught me etiquette because you will not believe how flustered I got writing this, but here you are! This might be the most lighthearted chapter (aside from that flashback scene) and it was definitely very fun to write. Hope you enjoy! Also, this one's kind of bawdy.
> 
> Shoutout to Mark and Shine for ensuring that I was never too stuck to continue.

The forest walk was nice enough. Even as he could feel everything that had happened coming to a close—as he could sense the tides that were rolling in—he let himself in enjoy it. Besides, what good was it to be in such a situation, and to  _ not  _ make the most of it?

Nienor paused, touching a hand to the bark of a nearby tree. “This is—”

“Sap.”

“I know what sap is, elf.” She rolled her eyes. “I was  _ going  _ to say that this seems more than is characteristic.”

“Maybe it has something to do with the Queen’s magic.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe.”

He joined her at her side. She was right—the sap seeped through the bark in a long stream, uncharacteristic of the trees around Menegroth. He felt something sticky drip down his cheek. His eyes darted up. “Oh no.” 

Nienor followed his gaze. “I see.” For some valar-forsaken reason, neither of them seemed to find in themselves the sense to move away from the broken branch. “Well.” Streams of the stuff fell on them from above, covering their clothes, their skin, their hair—gluing their arms together where they had been brushed up together.

They stared at each other.

“ _ Well _ .” Mablung cleared his throat. Another drop slid down his face, over his eyebrow. Nienor looked up. 

“That branch—the branch has snapped.”

“I see.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Right, right.” Nienor’s gaze shifted. “We should probably, uh—”

“Move?”

“Yes, that.”

They shuffled out of the way of the tree. Mablung attempted to pull his arm free, but the sap was drying fast and it was more difficult than he would’ve liked. Actually, no, if he was being honest, it was just as difficult as he would’ve liked.

“You know, you’re awfully sappy.” Nienor’s eyes widened. She grinned at the accidental pun.

“We should really take a bath.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, pressing her weight against him, “just, it seems like we’re somewhat stuck together by your powerful Doriath sap—” 

“Please don’t say that—”

“—so, unless you want to walk around naked, we might have to go and find one of those communal hot springs you were telling me about the other week.”

A sense of ease fell over him. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“Then lead the way.”

Thankfully, it wasn’t far and they could, as it were, pass themselves off as just leaning on each other after a long day, rather than being actually, physically glued together. At least to anyone who didn’t look for more than a few seconds. 

Somehow, because it was just how his luck ran, the spring was empty. 

“Oh, privacy,” Nienor sighed. “Wonderous thing.” She reached forward and undid the clasp at the top of Mablung’s jacket. He froze for a moment, before remembering where they were. Still, when her fingers inevitably grazed his bare skin, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. She bit her lip in concentration as she fiddled with the final clasp. It was very nearly too much. 

He almost sighed in relief when the garment came away. 

“I may be wearing one of those dresses that you need help to take on and off.” Nienor looked at him, unreadable. It was too much. This was definitely too much.

She turned around, exposing him to a heavily laced back, with a series of fancily tied knots that all, for some reason, lay over bare skin. Of course it did. It was the middle of summer, there was no  _ way  _ she was going to wear extra clothes under her already heavy dresses. 

It wasn’t that the idea of touching her so closely repulsed him, he thought, as he slipped his fingers around the first knot, quite the opposite, really; he’d have been lying to say that he had never thought about Nienor. Or, well, never  _ thought  _ thought about her. He just would never have admitted that fact to any living being (and quite a few dead ones, too.) But, he flushed deeper, she’d worn this dress before and, well, he’d already given enough thought to how he’d go about taking apart those knots that it was a reasonably easy task. 

Out of respect, he tried not to actually touch her skin. Or to kiss her back. Or to slip the dress over her shoulders himself. 

“Thank you,” she said, stepping away.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, then cursed himself under his breath. At least they weren’t still stuck together. That would’ve been unbearable. 

He looked down at himself and wondered if it would be decent for him to continuing undressing, or if she should get in the water with his breeches still on. Sure, it would certainly be more respectful, but he’d be soaking for hours, and he’d have to walk home like that and—the sound of fabric falling into a pile on the floor drew his eyes up against his will.

To Nienor. The sound drew his eyes to Nienor. 

Naked. 

“You know, I think all that exploring and riding did me good because you can see my abs really well,” she said, looking down at herself. Nienor. Nienor said. Looking down at her body. Currently unclothed. Nienor’s body. Her dress in a heap at her ankles. She was naked. Nienor was naked. He looked away, staring intently at the water. “Want to touch them? They’re rock solid.”

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about seeing her naked. Just. Not like this. 

And it was one thing to hypothetically imagine being naked with someone else. It was another entirely for it to actually, well, happen.

“Well, time to get steamy,” she said, and she slipped into the water, and straight into his line of sight. He looked down. “Are you not going to join me?” She asked. “Because, no offence, you really look like you could do with a bath.” 

“Yes, right, of course.” He said, and tried to avoid thinking as he undressed. His mother had taught him to meditate when he was little by telling him to rest his focus entirely on whatever tasks he ended up with. She said it would help him in battle, to have such a clear mind. Now, he focused on the feeling of the fabric slipping over his skin, and the way the steam from the spring curled around his ankles, and the gentle splashing as Nienor moved. It really,  _ really  _ didn’t help. 

He slipped into the water as quickly as he could.

Nienor waded over to him. The water only came up to her waist. She leant in, and he felt as if his mind had been thrown into rapid water, searching desperately for something to cling to. “Hold still,” she said, raising a wet hand to his face and wiping at the area over his eyebrow. The sap. Right. Of course. “You don’t want to accidentally lose an eyebrow peeling that off later.”

“Right.”

She smiled at him. It wasn’t an innocent smile. “You really sure you don’t want to feel my abs?” 

* * *

Nienor liked to take things slowly. He had figured that out pretty quickly, and it made sense, so he’d never even dream of pushing her. Their relationship had remained remarkably chaste for that of a husband and wife. It wasn’t just about the sex, too, but the fact that she was mortal and built differently. He tried not to think about that. 

“Do you remember the sap?” She asked, one evening over dinner, after they’d refreshed themselves from a hunting trip. He turned to look at her as they sat next to each other on one side of the table, watching the sunset through the open window.

“That was the most stressful afternoon of my life,” he said. Then he thought about it some more. He didn’t correct himself; it wasn’t the time or place. “I’m assuming you  _ knew _ that stripping naked in front of me and asking me to touch your body wasn’t appropriate etiquette—not to mention immodest.”

Nienor stifled a laugh. “Oh, but I didn’t,” she batted her eyelashes. Her voice was far too sickly sweet for her to be serious. “Care to explain?”

“First of all, you aren’t meant to just  _ touch  _ ladies like that.”

“But I  _ did  _ ask you to.”

“Yes, but, well—” Nienor leant forward, the fabric of her shift slipping off her shoulder, and he lost his train of thought. He forced himself to focus on her eyes. “You can’t—”

“Can’t what?”

“And you aren’t supposed to be alone with a lady in such a scenario!” He said, as the topic came back to him. She had undone the top button of her dress, probably for the heat. He kept his eyes on her face, hoping any flush could be passed off as a result of the wine.

“Then how, pray tell,  _ is  _ a lady supposed to key in a gentleman to the fact that she might be interested in him touching her body in  _ immodest  _ ways?”

The words made sense individually. Put together, Mablung just couldn’t quite seem to get a good hold on them. “You were...interested in me?”

“Could you not tell?” She raised her eyebrows. “Well.”

“You court a woman,” he said, deciding not to outright admit anything, “and then you get married, and you—”

“Fornicate!” She chirped. The way she said it made it sound stupid and overly formal and she was probably right. “But, really, if I had wanted you to sleep with me, what could I have done?”

“For a start, you could’ve  _ asked _ ,” he sighed. “I would’ve said yes; I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t already entertained the idea myself, but you’re so far above my station...” Nienor shifted closer and folded her legs so that the hem of her shift rose up to her thigh. He tried very hard to keep not looking.

“Mablung,” she said, “I’d like you to touch me in immodest ways.”

“Now?”

She nodded, biting her lip. “And, you know, you can look at me all you like.”

And he did. He let his eyes trace the curve at the side of her jaw, he tendons in her neck, her collarbones and the rise and fall of her chest. He followed the curve of her waist beneath the thin fabric of her dress—one of the ones he’d smuggled for her from her quarters in Menegroth—the way it spilt like liquid between around her thighs. “Anywhere?” He asked, and she nodded.  _ Anywhere.  _ He could touch her anywhere. 

He chose her thigh, running his fingers gently over the skin at first, then, on a whim, pulling her into his lap. Then he brushed the newly-grown hair away from her face, and ran his fingertips along her jaw, brushing her lips with his thumb, cupping her chin. She breathed slowly. 

He kissed the tiny nook between her earlobe and her jaw, first, lips barely brushing against the skin, then her neck, her collarbones, her shoulder. She shuddered and wound her hands into his hair, grinding the lower half of her body against him. It did maddening things to his focus. 

_ Focus _ . All he wanted to focus on was this. Was on his wife. The way her breath caught as he kissed her, the clumsiness in her hands as she tugged at the back of his tunic, the colour in her cheeks as their eyes met again, at last, after she pulled it over his head.

He kissed her. This time on the lips. Lust, or desire, or love or whatever he could call it was like a tidal wave that crashed into him, pushing him deeper against her lips; like a river that coursed through him, guiding his hands to the front of her dress, unfastening the buttons, pulling it down over her shoulders. 

They broke away from each other for air, panting. She smiled at him.  _ It wasn’t an innocent smile.  _ Her hands tightened in his hair, and she pulled, hard enough to tip his head back, not hard enough to hurt, and pressed kisses of her own against his neck, over his chest, until he moaned. 

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, breathing in her scent. Sweaty, sure, but that didn’t bother him. She hugged him back. “How about we retire to our chambers, good sir?” She breathed, and he laughed. On a whim, he lifted her up from where they sat, and she pretended to swoon for him. He carried her, still laughing, to the bedroom and laid her down.

“Are you sure you want this?” He asked, serious again, as climbed over her.

She nodded.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted. 

“You’ll do great,” she said, tugging at the ties around his waistband. He slipped his hands under the hem of her dress, and pushed it up around her. She pulled his breeches down. A million thoughts ran through his mind. About what this meant. About what could happen. About all of the terrible rumours he’d heard during his last trip.  _ Focus.  _

He kissed her again. Hard. And he made love to his wife.

* * *

It had been nearly three years of the women of Dor Lomin in Doriath when he next saw them—as much as he would’ve been willing to stay at Nienor’s side and show her every single nook and cranny, he  _ did  _ have a job to do, and he would go whenever, and wherever the King bid him. 

Still, there were times when he would return, if only briefly, to check in, and he would see them. Or he wouldn’t. It was a matter of if their paths managed to cross, in the end. There was no room for making arrangements. 

One time they met again on that low balcony, and he pointed out where his home was to her.

_ “Just looks like more trees.”  _ She had laughed.  _ “Oh, God, please don’t tell me you live in a tree.” _

_ “No! No, my house is just behind all the trees.” _

She breathed a sigh of relief.  _ “Ah, then maybe I can come visit one day. Bring Túrin along, too—wait—unless if he’s already been. I wouldn’t want to suffer through divided attention for nothing.” _

“ _ You don’t seem terribly worried about him.” _

Her look passed to a frown and he instantly regretted his words.  _ “I don’t know—it—it’s hard to worry too hard for someone that you’ve never met, but I also feel attached to him as my brother. I want to find him.” _

Mablung had nodded, then. He’d never had any siblings and even if he could claim that Beleg and the other court children were like kin to him, he’d never have  _ not known  _ them. He wondered what it must be like to live like that. 

Thingol called him to the throne room. Morwen was there. Mablung realised that he might not have to wonder for much longer.

“ _ Rashness,  _ lord! If my son lurks in the woods hungry, if he lingers in bonds, if his body lies unburied, then I would be rash. I would lose no hour to go seek him.” Morwen scowled. Mablung could only guess at what his King had said to her. Nienor met his eyes from across the room. 

“Lady of Dor-Lómin,  _ that _ surely the son of Hurin would not desire. Here would he think you better bestowed than in any other land that remains: in the keeping of Melian.” Thingol had said the wrong thing, Mablung noted as he glanced at Morwen’s expression. He had also carefully avoided referring to Túrin as his own son, though, which would’ve certainly made it worse. He had to give his Majesty points for trying. “For Hurin’s sake and Túrin's I would not have you wander abroad in the black peril of these days.”

“You did not hold Túrin from peril, but you will hold me from him,” Morwen raised her voice, scorn seeping from her words. “ _ In the keeping of Melian!  _ Yes,” she laughed bitterly, “a prisoner of the Girdle! Long did I hold back before I entered it, now I rue it.” 

Mablung edged closer to Nienor, watching the King carefully lest he signal his action in some way. Thingol held up his hands, placating. “Nay, if you speak so, lady for Dor-Lómin, know this: the Girdle is open. Free you came hither, free you shall stay—or go.”

Melian stepped forward, and the whole hall fell silent to watch her as she laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Her voice was soft, imploring as she spoke. “Go not hence, Morwen. A true word you said: this doubt is of Morgoth. If you go, you go at his will.”

Mablung nudged Nienor in the side. She furrowed her brow. Mablung had a feeling that whatever Morwen said, it would be the end of that discussion.

She straightened herself up, and spoke with dignity. “Fear of Morgoth will not withhold me from the call of my kin, but if you fear for me, lord, then send me some of your people.”

Mablung’s gaze snapped to the king. Thingol saw him, and saw him next to Nienor, and with that look in his eyes, and took in a deep breath. “I command you not,” he said, carefully, “but my people are my own to command. I will send them at my own advice.”

Morwen turned on her heel and strode away from the hall, stopping only to meet Nienor’s eyes for a moment, before flinging the doors open before her. Nienor hugged herself and turned to him. “You’ll go anyway, won’t you?”

“I—”

“No, no, it’s okay if you can’t.” She shook her head. Her voice turned hard. “I understand.” It left him uneasy. She didn’t sound upset, she sounded like she was  _ planning.  _

He found her later, as she stood on that balcony, what little breeze was left tousling her hair. “She bid me goodbye,” she said, without turning. “She told me to wait until she returns. Call me deluded, but I have some terrible foreboding that she won’t.”

Mablung moved to stand next to her in silence. 

“Tell me that’s delusion.”

“I think…” he trailed off. He didn’t think she was deluded, certainly, but he also didn’t want to upset her. “I think that foreboding, most of the time, is simply the combination of fear and apprehension.”

She hummed in agreement. “You’re probably right. Probably.”

“Mablung.” They turned at the sound of a voice. A young page stood in the doorway. “The King requires your presence.”

He nodded a quick goodbye to Nienor before following them to Thingol’s quarters. 

“Morwen has left,” he said. “Follow now speedily, yet let her not be aware of you. But when she is come into the wild, if danger threatens, then show yourselves; and if she will not return, then guard her as you may. But some of you I would have go forward as far as you can, and learn all that you may.”

Mablung nodded. “Yes, lord, of course.”

He turned from the room and made his way to the stables, gesturing to his men. In hindsight, he probably should’ve counted them before he left.

* * *

It was the blood that let her know. The blood came first—just a little, a few days after, dark. Her breath caught in her throat.  _ So soon?  _ So soon. Of course, it could be something else, but she had a feeling. Always that feeling—it either nagged at her to tell her something was wrong, or tapped her on the shoulder and drew her eyes to the evidence. 

Whatever joyful abandon she had felt was gone now. 

Her stomach churned. Not for any sane, logical reason other than the cloying anxiety that liked to wrap its grip around her throat when she turned corners wrong, or her eyes failed to adjust fast enough upon leaving the house. 

She steadied herself against the counter and tuned into the sounds of the forest around her.  _ Listen for the birds,  _ she told herself,  _ the birds are always there with their wings. They won't fall. _ She took a deep breath. 

"I'm going outside," she said, aloud. She wasn't sure who to; the cottage was empty. 

The fresh air soothed the sickening heat that had come over her, and she made her way to her traps. Most were empty, but the one on the furthermost corner of what could be realistically considered their plot had caught a pregnant rabbit. She sighed and began to untie the poor creature—she could never keep a clear conscience killing it.

Last time, she thought, it had been spring. A cold spring, but spring nonetheless. Now, thanks to her caution, it was early summer, and pleasantly warm and, if everything worked as well as it should, then she wouldn't have to be pregnant during the spring at all. The thought comforted her.

She reached the final knot. All she'd have to do to set the rabbit free would be to undo it, and she could bound away and whelp in peace. 

She met the rabbits eyes. 

_ Children like pets.  _

It was an impossible idea, obviously. For a start, she was likely only two weeks gone, and this rabbit looked close to her time. Not to mention that the gestational periods of rabbits were far shorter than those of humans. Or half-elves. 

The idea sent a shudder through her, up from the base of her spine. Not an external one, but one from within her. One of excitement. 

She undid the final knot, but she didn't let the rabbit go. It had cut its paw, she told herself, she might as well treat it. She picked the poor thing up and carried her to the house. The rabbit didn't struggle.

"You know," Nienor said, as she set her down on the table and reached for the medical box, "you and I can help each other." 

The rabbit didn't respond. She hadn't expected it to. 

"See, I can heal you, feed you, care for you—give you anything and everything you need to live comfortably and safely in my home." She rubbed a salve into the creature's paw. "And in exchange, you can show me birth, see—” she rest her hand lightly over her stomach— “we aren’t so different.”

She tensed at the sound of a horse approaching. Mablung, right. She swallowed back any approaching thoughts, and picked up the rabbit, before hurrying down the steps to meet him. The pleasant breeze on the air soothed her as it touched her skin. He smiled when he saw her, even as confusion passed over his features. 

“The rabbit?” He asked, dismounting. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. 

“I caught her in one of the traps, but I decided to take her in, seeing as she was wounded and pregnant, as I suspect I am.”

“I’ll gather some wood to help you build a hutch—” He froze, hands still on the horse’s reins. The mare whined, annoyed at being held still so abruptly. Nienor listened to the sounds of the forest, felt the softness and the weight of the rabbit in her arms. “Just—you definitely don’t mean that you’re wounded, do you?”

Nienor shook her head. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice so, so much quieter than before.

“I already said I’m not—” He shook his head. She knew what he meant. She’d always had some idea that he’d found out the full story. Either because someone else told him, or because he’d managed to put together the pieces himself. It was a relief to not have to tell it herself. “I think so. I planned for this,” she said. 

“That was fast,” he said, and Nienor snorted. 

“Elbereth’s cunt, that was  _ fast _ ,” she agreed and he only winced a little at the blasphemy. House servants and Sador had taught her to swear. It had given her quite the repertoire. 

He cupped her cheeks. “I love you.” Then he pulled her into a hug—slightly awkwardly, of course, keeping in mind the rabbit. 

“We might need to build more than a hutch,” she murmured. His laugh, light and breathless, was the best sound she had ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comment what you enjoyed: it gives me a hint on what to focus on in future chapters!


	4. Chapter 4

She’d stolen the armour. She should’ve felt guilty, probably, but it was hard to when the cause was so important. No one had stopped her; she’d just kept her hair hanging long around her ears and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes, and they’d let her do it. They hadn’t even asked who she was with. They hadn’t asked her anything at all. For a moment, she was afraid that she had died and become a ghost.

But ghosts couldn’t ride horses, and she’d managed that just fine. 

Her mother wasn’t far, and the hunters knew how to ride fast. She picked it up from them pretty quickly—she had always been a quick learner; apparently it was a gift she shared with her brother, but she would rather have it on her own merit, if she was being honest. 

Mablung seemed almost like a different person. She could still make him out underneath his guise as captain, but he was sterner, and he held himself taller. And then there was her mother, so far ahead. Too old for this, Nienor thought, but there was nothing to be done about that.

Morwen pulled up, and Nienor knew. She could only hope that her mother wouldn’t realise that she was there; that she’d be able to take control of the situation for herself. 

“Will Thingol stay me? Or late does he send me the help he denied?”

Nienor froze. She hadn’t considered that Mablung could’ve been sent for any reason other than to help her mother. Her naivete may have cursed her. 

“Both,” he called back, then, pleading, “will you not return?”

“No.” Her words contained within them a finality that made Nienor shudder. She understood—oh,  _ Eru allmighty _ , she understood, but that didn’t quell the worry or the sick dread. 

“Then I must help you,” Mablung said, and Nienor breathed a sigh of relief, “though it is against my own will.” He rode forward to meet Morwen at her side. 

Nienor wasn’t sure what she had expected. For him to be the knight in shining armour? Rushing out into danger against the wishes of his King and his own better judgement just to please her? It was the sort of childish hope that Morwen would’ve, years ago, squashed. Mablung’s loyalties were to the King and to himself, not to some girl he’d spent only a tiny fraction of his eternal lifetime knowing. 

“Wide and deep here is Sirion,” he said, “and perilous to swim for beast or man.”

“Then bring me over by whatever way the Elven-folk are used to cross,” Morwen’s haughty composure dropped for just a moment and she smiled—she smiled the mischievous smile Nienor had learnt from her as a child, when she had tricked her into taking foul-tasting medicine, or beaten her at hide-and-seek. The smile that she twisted with just a slight hint of bitter satisfaction. “Or else I will try the swimming.”

Even from a distance, Nienor could picture Mablung’s exact expression. The moment when he realised that mother and child were never too far removed from each other, no matter how they appeared. She wondered when he would notice the extra rider; when he’d realise that the same was true of physical distance, too. 

He led them to the shore. Nienor stayed hidden, just on the other side of the trees. No one had noticed her—she imagined she must seem like little more than a shadow, moving as silent as she could, keeping just enough distance to never be noticed, while also to hear the goings on. But the ferries needed confinement and closeness. 

She closed her eyes and prayed that none of the other men would notice. 

None of them did.

But her mother, her mother with all her vigilance, built up from the years they’d spent tensing at the slightest hint of disturbance, her mother did. 

“Whence came he?” She said to Mablung. The captain froze, eyes finding her, widening. She stared back at him, daring him to say something. “Thrice ten you came to me, thrice ten and one you come ashore.”

Nienor couldn’t help the grim smile that split her features. She reached up, and pulled away the helmet, shaking her hair loose. Mablung cursed. The stuck-up one, Hebintir, just stared at her. 

“Go back! Go back! I command you!” Her mother cried. Mablung said nothing.

Nienor had been prepared for this. “If the wife of Húrin can go forth against all counsel at the call of kindred,” she said, riding forward to meet them, “then so also can Húrin’s daughter. Mourning you named me, but I will not mourn alone, for father, brother and mother. But of these only you I have known, and above all do I love. And nothing that you fear not do I fear.”

Morwen was silent for a moment. She was distantly aware of the gazes of the elves, of Mablung, but she didn’t care. She cared about her mother, and what she would say. “What would you do?” She asked, at last, defeated. 

“Go where you go,” Nienor answered. It sounded almost childishly simplistic when she said it aloud. “This choice indeed I bring. To lead me back and bestow me safely in the keeping of Melian; for it is not wise to refuse her counsel—”  _ Lords,  _ she sounded like Mablung— “or to know that I shall go into peril, if you go.” She chanced a glance his way; he looked as if he was biting back a sigh of relief. 

Morwen frowned. “It is one thing to refuse counsel, it is another to refuse the command of your mother. Go now back!”

Nienor tried not to let the disappointment show. “No.” She mimicked her mother’s tone. “It is long since I was a child. I have a will and wisdom of my own, though until now it has not crossed yours. I go with you. Rather to Doriath, for reverence of those that rule it; but if not, then westward. Indeed, if either of us go on, it is I rather, in the fullness of strength.”

“I go on, as I have purposed. Come you also, but against my will.”

Nienor met her with unbreaking eye-contact. “Let it be so.”

* * *

He was so wonderful and beautiful and small and sweet that for a full ten seconds Mablung forgot to breathe, or rather, neglected to intentionally for fear that the little thing would be disturbed, and would start screaming again. He’d only screamed a little bit, just for a few seconds at what he assumed was the horror of being forced into the physical world, where it was cold and loud and where people could just  _ touch  _ you. But then the old human nurse who they’d ridden halfway around the Girdle to find especially had towelled him down, wrapped him up warm, told him to be quiet and behave himself for his mother. And he had. 

Mablung suspected it was mostly surprise. He’d have been surprised. Maybe he was, he couldn’t remember; he wished his mother was around to ask. Still, regardless, Nienor had asked if they could give her a minute, and so the baby had been handed to him instead. 

He was all wrinkly, with no eyebrows and the barest tuft of dark hair, still slightly damp, and he was the most perfect thing Mablung had ever seen. He wanted to cry. Instead, he held the baby close against his chest, making sure to support his neck, the same way his mother had told him to hold Beleg when she’d first agreed to foster him. It was an old memory, and Beleg certainly hadn’t looked so pruned, but it held up. The nurse didn’t scold him.

In his sleep, his son stirred and grasped at the fabric of his shirt. He thought his heart might explode. He must’ve been making a face, because the nurse laughed. 

“Overwhelming, isn’t it?” She smiled. He nodded. “I’m assuming you don’t need to be told that your baby is weird, though.”

He shook his head. That much was obvious, especially to a human. From the little points on his ears to the strange, waxy translucent quality of his skin. Nienor had confessed to him roughly a month before she gave birth that while, yes, she certainly found elves good looking, they also had a fragile quality. She had traced across his cheekbone with her fingers.  _ You look as if you’re halfway through fading into the scenery,  _ she’d said. 

Their son looked like he was only three quarters there, which made perfect sense.

“I just need to make sure mother is alright, then I can leave you.” The nurse heaved herself up from the chair and went to go and check on her, presumably.

It was so strange, feeling so sick with worry over Nienor, while also so dizzy with love for their child. Their son.  _ They had a son.  _ The baby opened his eyes again—Nienor’s ocean-grey, but with a distinctly elven ring of ice-blue around the outside of his irises. “Hello there,” he murmured. The baby squirmed a little in his arms, moving to get a better look at him; he vaguely recalled hearing somewhere that they could only see within certain distances, but he wasn’t sure what those were. He pressed a kiss onto his son’s cheek. 

“All good,” the nurse said, stepping back into the kitchen. 

“Thank you,” he said, “you’ve been a real help.”

She shrugged. “I’m just grateful for the opportunity to see what the baby’d look like. Quite the curiosity, you’ve got there.”

“He’s wonderful.”

“Tell that to your wife; she’s the one who made him.” She gathered up her things. “If you need anything—” she made some gesture to indicate that he should come and get her. He nodded, then turned his attention back to the baby, who appeared to be very interested in grabbing at his hair. 

The front door closed. 

He made his way through to the bedroom to find Nienor sat up, shielding a freshly lit candle from the breeze with her cupped hand. She put a finger to her lips, then shut her eyes and murmured something into the flame. He moved towards her quietly and sat down next to her on the bed. 

“Remember how I said that I didn’t want to mourn my family alone?” She asked quietly. “It came to pass anyway. Sometimes I wonder whether my mother really did have that foresight your kind are always talking about.” She frowned, then shook her head. “I only just remembered that I said those things, then.”

“Do you feel alone?”

She pondered for a moment. “No, not as much as I would’ve been—not as much as I was.” 

The baby— _ their  _ baby—began to whine. Nienor blinked, as if realising he was there for the first time. Maybe she was; she always seemed ever-so-slightly distant when she took her time to look back into the past. She reached out and touched his tiny cheek. 

"You know I expected something freakier. This is just a little underwhelming; he just looks like a less creepy elf."

Mablung laughed. “Let’s hope he doesn’t remember that,” but even as he said those words, he thought back to Dior, the half-elf, who seemed at once all too solid and yet completely elven. Almost in a calculated way.

“He also looks hungry,” Nienor said, snapping him back to reality. It took a little maneuvering, but he managed to shift the baby into her arms without once letting go of his head—it occurred to him how fragile babies were, and now his especially. How fragile humans were. Then he looked at Nienor, hair grown back, scars fading, their son at her breast, and he changed his mind. Humans weren’t fragile; they had none of the advantages his kind had—of quick healing, long life and magic—and yet they lived on anyway, as powerful as any elf. 

Once, he’d lamented the line of Húrin’s sense of courage, now he revered it. 

“He’s wonderful,” he said, remembering the nurse’s words. “You’re wonderful.”

“ _ Celair,”  _ Nienor said, her accent thick around the word. He no longer thought it ugly, though—the way she spoke drew him into every word.

“Celair?”

“Our son’s name. Celair.”

He smiled. When he looked down at the baby, it was as if someone had lit a torch in his very soul. “Or Faen—” he caught his son’s hand before he had a chance to scratch at himself— “just as a start.”

“Celairfaen?” Nienor asked, raising her eyebrows.

“That’s...that’s certainly a mouthful.” 

“If only I was a wise and wonderful elf who knew exactly who her son would be,” Nienor lamented, not entirely seriously, if Mablung had to guess. “Wait! No, I see a vision—” She squeezed her eyes shut— “he’s going to be completely adorable; just the cutest little thing you’ve ever seen.”

The baby (as of yet unnamed) squirmed against her chest. 

“Alright, alright—” she lifted him up against her chest and pat him on the back— “let’s get you all gas-free, hm? You know, it’s hitting me that someday he’s going to be a grown man, and I’ll still remember him like this, all small and squirmy and—” She froze— “full of sick, apparently.”

“Let me take him.” He took the baby back from her and used his sleeve to wipe his mouth. For a moment he considered jokingly scolding him, but then the infant yawned, and any thoughts slipped away. “Celairthir.”

“No,” Nienor laughed. “Also isn’t that the name of one of those Fëanorians?”

“No!” He protested, kissing her on the cheek. “And, besides, I’m a good marchwarden who knows absolutely nothing about any Son of Feanor other than that they’re irrevocably evil and bad.”

Nienor snorted, but she turned to kiss him on the lips. “Can we call him Celairchen?”

“He could always be Nienorion. Nienion”

“Oh, shut up; I’ve always hated my name.”

“Húrin the Second.”

“Are you trying to curse our son?”

“ _ ‘Thingol-would-definitely-approve’ _ ?”

“You’re not even taking this seriously.” She grinned.

“Celairmil.” He looked her dead in the eyes just so he could catch her surprise.

“That’s very sweet, but no.” Nienor leaned over to look at baby Celair-something. “I was going to suggest Celairmab but, on second thought...”

“The sentiment was romantic,” Mablung said, and kissed her forehead.

Nienor took the baby back and cradled him in her arms. He had always wondered what it would be like to be a father; not out of any active desire (though he knew people had), but out of curiosity—some need to understand how his own father might’ve felt if he’d been able to raise him. So far, he felt like his soul had grown too big for his body with love. “Celairann,” Nienor said, drawing his attention back to the both of them. 

“Celairann,” he echoed back to her. “I like that.”

* * *

There he saw her. 

“Nienor!” Mablung called out, remembering the chaos, how dark it had been, the way the smoke and fog had stung his eyes, choking on the fumes. Nienor stood alone, so still he’d thought she was a stack of rocks, or a statue from a distance. Was she even breathing? “Are you okay?” He asked, careful to watch his step as he made his way towards her. 

She made no response. 

“Why are you so far away from everyone else?” He stopped in front of her. “Where are they?”

She was staring out into the distance, at some point just over his shoulder. He turned, expecting to see some monster—the dragon itself, even, but there was nothing behind him.

“Nienor?”

Silence. He reached out and waved his hand in front of her face; her eyes didn’t move. She barely even blinked. 

“Oh, no.” He eased himself to the ground at her feet. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Nienor, I don’t know what’s wrong; I can’t help you. Please tell me what’s wrong.” He took her hand and looked up at her. Slowly, barely, she met his gaze. His skin crawled at how empty her eyes looked. 

Something stirred in the forest, He shook off the discomfort. 

“We need to move.” He stood up and tugged at her hand, and she walked after him. Not fast, not even steady, but she was moving and that was enough. They walked like that in silence for a while, until he dropped her hand, unthinking. It took him a moment to realise that she’d stopped. “Nienor?”

She didn’t respond. He wasn’t surprised by that anymore.

Instead, he walked back and took her hand again, and kept moving. 

“It’s so stupid,” he said, at last, just to fill the empty air, “but I really did think for a second that you’d convinced her and, I know it’s not my place, but I really wanted you to go back and be safe. I really like you, Nienor, whatever that means to you.

“I thought there would be more time. I know there’s never enough time with mortals—Beleg said as much—but I still thought that there would be more than this. 

"We never did find out what happened to Beleg,” he murmured. Something shifted in the darkness. He tried to ignore it. “Presumably he’s dead. I don’t want to believe it, but if he and Túrin are apart...if something had happened between them, Beleg would’ve come back. He would’ve come home and told me and cried about it, if he needed to, but he wouldn’t just have gone wandering in the wilderness. Not forever. 

“I miss him. It would’ve been nice to talk to him about this—about you. He would’ve understood. I really,  _ really  _ liked you, Nienor.” He turned to face her, grasping both her hands. “Please come back.”

She didn’t respond. Quietly, they kept walking. He traced all of the paths that he knew until finally the sun began to rise. He felt Nienor shudder, and for a moment he thought that she was back, but then she fell back, legs giving way—he caught her in his arms, then set her down on the ground, slipping his cloak under her head as some makeshift pillow. Finally, he let himself sit. 

“Not for nothing did I dread this errand, for it will be my last, it seems,” he spoke aloud, to no one in particular. “With this unlucky child of Men I shall perish in the wilderness, and my name shall be held in scorn in Doriath: if any tidings indeed are ever heard of our fate.” He laughed a bitter, cold laugh. “All else doubtless are slain, and she alone spared, but not in mercy.”

“Mablung?” He turned, squinting in the light of the sunrise. 

“Hebintir?”

“You—”

“I found the lady Nienor.”

Hebintir frowned. “We lost Morwen, I—uh—is she okay? She’s sleeping like the dead.”

He wondered if there were words he could use to explain just how absolutely not okay Nienor was. If there were, he couldn’t find them. Instead, he just shook his head and, to his surprise, Hebintir gave him an awkward reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.

“Shall we move her?”

Mablung nodded, and they helped lift her up and take her along with them. The journey was easier with the rest of his men, but he didn’t like the air. There was something weird on it; a sense of foreboding that wove its way around him, sickly, almost cloying. But they reached Doriath. They got within their safe range. 

Everything would be okay. Logically, he had to know that. They were safe in Doriath; it was safe for them to rest, he let them rest. But the feeling continued to pick at him all through the night, until he finally managed to fall asleep. 

When he woke up, his men were armed and Nienor was gone.

* * *

There she saw him. 

Half-dead, covered in blood, fingers slick and wet with red as they clutched at his side. His armour had been half-torn off, his face hit so that bruises of black and purple blossomed around his lips and his cheek. He was missing his sword. He leaned heavy against a tree, the fingers of his free hand dug deep into the bark to steady himself. His eyes, half-glazed over, stared into the air a metre in front of her. She'd never have called him fragile, but then she realised just how breakable he could be. 

Ceirann (they’d started shortening it once they realised how much of a mouthful ‘celair’ made everything) squirmed against her chest, pushing against the cloth that bound him there. She thanked her stars that she'd tied him there facing back over her shoulder—he didn't need to see his father like this. She hushed him, "it's okay, calm down. Everything is fine." 

The baby responded by crying out. 

Mablung's eyes focused and widened. "You—you brought the baby?" He said, his voice rough. 

"What else should I have done?" She pulled his free arm away from the tree and over her shoulder. "Leave him with the rabbits?"

"He probably would've liked that." 

"How long do you think you can hold on?"

"As long as I still have blood in my body," he said, smiling at Ceirann's wide-eyed gaze. There was blood at the corner of his mouth. The baby whined to be untied again, no doubt for want of his father's arms. Nienor rolled her eyes. 

"Can I have that in hours?"

Mablung coughed, "at this rate, around three.”

She tightened her grip around him. Elves could survive a lot, she knew that much, but they could still bleed out. They could still be killed. “You walked all this way?”

“I spent a long time lying on the ground, actually; I would’ve waited for the wound to heal itself but—” he grimaced, and Ceirann squealed— “but they would’ve come to gather the dead.” He stumbled as they walked, swaying on his feet and pulling her with him. He was half-delirious from blood-loss. It was a strange thing to hear him talking like that, to see him so unsteady. She tightened her grip some more. Not far now. 

He’d been his usual dutiful self to come that far without pausing to rest; he had to know that she would’ve gone all the way to Menegroth to get him, even if all she’d find was a body. He had to have known that. Either he’d decided to spare her the journey, or had intended to go and die somewhere hidden in the forest so that she’d never find him.

But it wasn’t far, and she could save him in three hours, probably. All she had to do was stop the blood. 

“Just keep walking,” she said. He did as he was told. 

Mablung let go of her as soon as they were through the door, allowing her long enough to untie Ceirann and set him down in his crib. He collapsed forward against her the moment she returned. She lay him down on the kitchen table, and set to work, pulling off his armour and cutting away the bloodied fabric over the wound. It was a nasty axe-gash, but placed luckily enough that his organs were all intact. She rinsed her hands and dug the dirt out from under her fingernails. She pulled out one of the herbal healing salves and poured the thick oil onto her palms, coating them in it, then reaching into the wound and spreading it over all of the internal grazes and cuts. She bathed a needle and thread in the stuff, then stitched them all shut, before repeating the process with the outside of the gash. She followed by making up a paste to smooth over the stitches and seal them in, before bandaging it, all the while ignoring her husband as he hissed in pain. 

“I think we’re even now,” she said, securing the bandage with a knot. Mablung groaned. “Once the paste is dry, we need to remove it and then get you properly bathed.”

“You’re getting good at this stuff.”

“I read the medical books while Ceirann sleeps; I probably know them better than you do.”

“Probably.”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, I’ll make you some tea.” She paused to listen to Ceirann crying in the next room. “And I’ll get the baby.” It wasn’t a hungry cry, or a sleepy cry, or even a dirty cry—he just wanted his father and, really, the worst of the blood was gone now, and the wound didn’t look so bad all wrapped up. She heaved him up, gently bouncing him as she carried him back to the kitchen.

Ceirann reached out for Mablung as soon as he saw him. It was really quite sweet. She placed him in his lap, and moved to the stove top.

“I let Thingol die.” 

She froze. “What?”

“Nienor, I let him die; I got hit, and I knew I could’ve kept fighting, could’ve tried to protect him, but I would’ve died, and so I let myself fall instead. He just stared at me, like he knew that I wasn’t really fatally wounded. Then they got him, and he died right there. Right in front of me.

“I just thought about the fact that if I died, I wouldn’t get to see him again.” He looked intently at their son.

Ceirann batted at his face in that gentle way that babies do. Mablung smiled, gaze softening.

“I know I did the wrong thing,” he said, frowning. Ceirann matched his expression. 

“I love you for it.” Nienor nudged the tea into his free hand. He smiled and took a sip, shifting to keep from spilling any on their son, even if he seemed determined to grab it. “I’d never forgive you for leaving me.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be able to even leave the house for a while. I can get acquainted with those books, too.”

“I suppose then that I’ll have to take care of you, for a while,” she smiled. “And if you feel the need to collapse again, please do it where I can catch you.”

“I’d love the honour of being caught.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for reading and sticking with this! Please leave a comment with what you thought and if you enjoyed the story!


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